Mauvais Quart D'heure
by ThePro-LifeCatholic
Summary: *Charles Dance PoTO* Erik Carriere, aka the Phantom of the Opera, is feared, adored, and respected. The Opera Garnier is his domain, and everyone knows this. However, this position is called into question when Erik wakes one morning to find that he's been reduced to the size of an ink well. Between himself, Christine Daae, and Gerard, surely some reversal can be found...right?
1. The Strange Dream

** Hello, world!**

**I realize it's been a while...a long while...at least for my followers/readers who are on this website...but I'm back! I'm back with new fandoms, this time _Phantom of the Opera_. Charles Dance Phantom of the Opera, to be exact.**

**Before starting, a few quick notes on the story itself:**

** The title is French. It's a phrase which literally means "a bad quarter of an hour". Its more general meaning is "a short period of time which is extremely unpleasant/mortifying/shaming"**

**Inspiration for this story comes from a lovely tumblr user who goes by ladycavalier. They had the idea of a "Smol Cherik", and my mind ran away with their idea. Thank you, ladycavalier, and you all should check them out. They've written a couple PoTO one-shots, and each one is a treasure.**

**I would also like to thank pippa-writes, who is another writer on this site. They wrote a one-shot based on the same "Smol Cherik" concept. Her writing is beautiful, short, and sweet (unlike mine). I highly recommend checking her out either via fanfiction or tumblr.**

** Now, with all that out of the way, let's get on with the story, shall we?**

* * *

Whether it was thick-headed stubbornness, the nightmares, or an endless list of projects which consumed his time and attention, Erik and sleep were never close. If he had been a true Opera Ghost, this wouldn't have mattered. As it stood, though, Erik was a creature of flesh and blood. His running record was several days' worth of activity without even an hour of respite, and he jumped at every opportunity to push his limits further. This ultimately meant that when exhaustion finally took hold, it was with unexpected power and unusual timing.

While the Opera Garnier hummed with life up above, joining the rest of Paris in greeting a new day, Erik was sprawled across a writing desk in his study, dreaming deeply. It was a rare moment of peace, one in which sleep drew the phantom far from solitude, from bleak, empty moments that filled his waking hours. If it had been his bed – rather, the coffin which served (in his mind) as a perfectly acceptable substitution for a bed – he could have passed a day or so in this death-like state. However, perhaps because of his uncomfortable position, or simply because of his body's aversion to sleep, the phantom's nap was short-lived.

Erik blinked groggily and a yawn escaped his lips. Despite his stiff joints, he lay still for several moments, allowing himself adequate time to reach some state of wakefulness. The entire sleep cycle – one which he avoided whenever possible – was a disorienting process, and each stage required some adjustment on his part. However, Erik was soon sitting up, stretching his arms over his head and shaking some feeling back into his wrists, arms, and neck. Another yawn, accompanied by a low, growling "hum" in the back of his throat, and his hands went to his face of their own accord. The mask was still in place. With the after-nap routine completed, Erik pulled himself to his feet. Now, if he recalled correctly, he had a composition to edit, followed by opera rounds and a bite of dinner squeezed somewhere in the late evening hours.

His piano music, then, was the next matter of importance. There were several pages in desperate need of changes, and he'd laid them out on his desk before sleep overtook him. Erik strode across the smooth, brown floorboards, only to be halted quite suddenly when the ground dropped out before him. It simply stopped, forming a clean-cut cliff.

Erik blinked once, twice. If he peered over this newly-discovered ledge, he could see, far below, what appeared to be a wide canyon of white stone. As far as Erik was concerned, however, there was no such canyon anywhere in his Domain; certainly not one in his private study! He paced back and paused to gather himself. From what he could remember, he had gone to his private study to write the next few measures of a short composition. He was certain of not going anywhere else before falling asleep. Unless he had just now diagnosed himself with sleepwalking, then he should, for all intents and purposes, be seated at what he nicknamed his "composing desk". The sheet music would be sitting in front of him, waiting for his pen…

…And then Erik realized that he hadn't seen his sheet music.

Confusion slowly gave way to concern as Erik hunted for his papers. In fact, the more he searched, the more bizarre his situation became. It was as if some force had plucked him up as he slept and carried him to some strange land made of polished wood, surrounded on all sides by an arid stone cavern. He considered whether or not he was still dreaming.

Erik began to pace around the diameter of the wooden platform. His shoes click-clacked a comforting rhythm as he moved, though this comforting sound gave way to the strangest crackling and scuffling, which prompted Erik to look at the ground. What he saw was white, papery carpeting covered in black dots of various sizes and patterns criss-crossing through thin lines. In some places, a large splatter of black – much like an ink stain – bled onto the white surface. As Erik stared, the floorplan began to shape into bars and measures; the black blotches were music notes, the lines marked their position on the keyboard.

Erik bent down and ran one hand across a music note. His palm came up stained black. He sniffed, crinkling his nose at the pungent scent of ink which filled his nostrils. Erik followed the music until they gave way to a single line of text; a short title which told him at once that he was standing upon a nocturne. What made him freeze from head to toe was how the words of the title were printed. Years of tedious practice had merited rather graceful lettering, a skill which he cherished and flounced whenever possible. And now the words "nocturne", "Opus", and even the numbers which scrolled across the top of the page – for a page it must be – he recognized as his own.

If this, then, was where his nocturne had disappeared to, the only puzzle left to solve was how it had become large enough to serve as full-floor carpeting. This must be, he reasoned, some bizarre, life-like dream or…perhaps…but he couldn't be hallucinating…?

Erik turned from the music to survey his surroundings. With his nocturne identified, the rest of the room began to take shape. Familiar objects, such as the desk chair, the candelabra resting on a stand by the study door, his quill and ink pot which waited on the left ledge of the desk; he slowly began to realize that each one was exactly where he'd placed it in his study the night before. The difference now was that they had grown to massive proportions. If he looked over desk's edge, then, he could see that the white canyon he'd seen earlier was the stone floor of his house.

Too confused to formulate words, Erik made his way to the ink well, which stood a little taller than himself. He made to slump against its side when he caught his reflection in the smooth, black-tinted glass. A wondering gaze stared back, and a terrifying thought wormed its way to the forefront of his mind. Until that moment, it seemed that the rest of his world had grown to disproportionally-gargantuan sizes.

Now another possibility presented itself, and would that he could dismiss it, forget it, banish it to whatever dark corner of his mind from which it had sprung!

Either his study had grown or the Phantom had shrunk, and neither option offered assurance.


	2. Serious Doubts About This Being a Dream

**Today, March 25th, is the final day of Cherik Appreciation Week.**

**That doesn't mean I'll stop posting these chapters for another year, though. No siree. I would like to thank everyone on the tumblrs who helped me celebrate. I've met so many new and amazing people because of our dear Cherik, and I hope that I continue to meet more of you in the future!**

**I'd also like to take a moment to thank everyone who commented/liked/shared this story. Also for the tumblr users who urged me to write today (especially Soignante. Thank you for the encouragement, although I never did have tea in a delicate cup today).**

* * *

Up above the stone ceiling which arched over the catacombs of the Opera Garnier, people chatted and laughed. A bright, golden sun painted Paris with color and sound. At this time, the Opera manager would be climbing from his carriage, pressing a few coins into the driver's gloved hand, and tripping up the stairs two at a time. He would brush through the great double doors onto the Opera threshold and lock himself away in his office only minutes later. Patchwork crowds were sculpting, painting, stitching costumes, and scrubbing at floors and windows with such vigor that one would tire simply by watching them work.

Meanwhile, in the lowermost levels of the Opera Garnier, tucked safely away from prying eyes, a small figure poised next to an ink well. He had attempted three times now to maneuver a feather quill with no success. The tip of the pen – the whole feather being roughly twice his height – refused to slide into the ink pot. It trembled and bobbed about, and he had to strain under the weight of what he could normally hold with only a few fingers. If anything, the only thing he'd managed to splatter was his own vest. A black pool had formed at the bottom of the glass pot, and streaks of ink dribbled down its side.

Erik threw the quill aside with a huff of frustration. It had been his plan, not to make a mess of himself, but rather to find some way of communicating his strange new development to the outside world, and by "outside world" was meant Gerard Carriere. For, as Erik had earlier concluded, there were only two rational explanations for how he and his ink well could be roughly the same size: either he was small, or he had been seized by some bout of madness. If it was the first scenario, then Gerard Carrier would be his usual height and perfectly capable of venturing down to the most personal and private area of the Phantom's Domain. Then again, if he was dreaming or imagining the whole thing, then Gerard could bring him back to reality. Gerard's appearance, then, was to be the deciding factor of Erik's predicament.

The note seemed a good idea at first. However, once one page of his nocturne had been turned over – he mourned having to recycle it as stationary, but no suitable substitution presented itself – and the quill wrestled with, Erik abandoned the task as a hopeless one. After all, he told himself, what would he have written, even if he'd managed to put pen to paper? How could he hope to explain to Gerard something which he couldn't understand himself?

Erik sat down on the blotted paper, running a hand absently through his hair. His fingers, clothing, and very likely his mask were splotched with ink; what were a few wisps of jet-black hair?

However, despite the overwhelming swell of morning circumstances, Erik was never one for sitting still. A restless itch to do something had him pacing the desk in less than five minutes. A note was a useless venture, so he turned to the next matter of importance: getting off his study desk. This was more easily addressed than the letter, as Erik was able to leap from the desk and onto the chair. The distance between the top of the chair and the stone floor was far greater than the chair and desk, and Erik would have been sore pressed to find a safe way around it. Fortunately for the tiny phantom, he had removed his cape before sitting down to edit the nocturne, and it was draped over the back of the chair, a cascading waterfall of black silk. Erik gave it a few tugs to be sure of its being anchored, then gripped two handfuls of fabric and half-slid, half-tumbled down the cape and onto the ground.

His shoes _tip-tapped_ lightly against the stone floor as he made his way from the desk to the doorway. Fortune was smiling down on him that morning, for in addition to leaving his cape on the chair, he had left the door open a crack. It was just enough that he could squeeze through and pop out in the adjoining hallway. The passage outside his study was a short one, and Erik normally could have crossed it in a few strides. However, now it stretched out before him as a vast, barren waste of white stone, flanked on either side by walls so tall that he couldn't see where they met the ceiling.

The trek to the front door lasted long enough for Erik to begin questioning the reasonability of his current course of action, which consisted of him wandering aimlessly about his home. As he walked, familiar objects towered over him, strange landmarks shaped as giant tables, chairs, and various trinkets. He passed through doorways easily enough, but the front door was shut when he reached it, and the doorknob was out of the question. He paced to-and-fro, then stooped down to examine the crack where the door was raised above the ground. Perhaps if he got down…

Erik grimaced as he splayed himself on the dusty stone floor. If he laid as flat as possible, his breath sucked in, he was just able to maneuver his way under the door and out onto the front porch.

Erik bushed vigorously at the fine coating of white dust which covered his vest and the front of his pants. He was truly a sorry sight; first splattered with ink, now dusted over like a powdered doughnut. He gave a few more swipes, then forced himself to look up and examine his surroundings.

Maneuvering his house had been an ordeal, but now Erik was faced with the outside world, and it utterly dwarfed him. A myriad of stone stretched as far as he could see. Patches of mist covered his view, and he could hear the faint splash of lake water lapping against its stony banks. He normally could see the whole scene from his front porch, but his current height made this impossible. Erik slid to his knees, as his legs had become too weak to support him. He was a pebble compared to his cavern! He couldn't see his lake, had barely made it to his front door…even the front porch steps in front of him seemed a daunting hurdle. The only way to the world "up above", as he called it, was by means of a twisting passage of stairways and trapdoors, and how did he expect to climb the first step?

Just how long he sat there, flitting from thought to thought in a silent daze, he couldn't say. Perhaps hours or minutes had passed, but that persistent itch for activity had him on his feet at last. Erik brushed his vest, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he could, trying to ignore the smears of ink. In all his life, there was no strange event which held a burning wick to his current situation. However, with the exception of his twisted visage, there was no past event which he hadn't solved. Whatever this new experience, this sick joke, curse, or dream, it would remain if he sat still and did nothing.

Strengthened by this resolve, Erik ventured to the edge of the porch and looked down. There were roughly twenty steps, which was quite a small obstacle compared to the winding staircases which led him to the upper chambers of the Opera Garnier. He went one at a time, edging himself carefully down the side of the first step, waving his legs uselessly in some attempt to scrape the top of the second step. This process continued at a snail's-pace, with more than one terrifying instance of his grip slipping, and the knowledge of his vulnerability to a broken neck did nothing to assuage his nerves.

At last, Erik's feet touched solid ground. The staircase, such a formidable obstacle earlier, now lay behind him. And here he was, none the worse off for having conquered it! Erik placed his hands on his hips – he absolutely _refused _the urge to examine what new state of ruin had taken hold of his outfit and bare skin – and surveyed the cavern. It was greater than ever, now that he was looking at it from ground-level. But his success with the stairs propelled him forward, with steady steps, in a direction that led him beyond the barren front lawn of his house.

Water splashed, closer now than before, and he angled himself so that he walked alongside the sound. If Erik had calculated his movements correctly, his current path was parallel to the lake. There were parts he knew, going forward, where the ridges of stony bank on either side of the reservoir grew dangerously thin, but his new height seemed to have a singular advantage at last; he might be able to maneuver these areas with ease. After that, he would come upon one of the staircases which would take him to the lowermost basements of the Opera Populaire. From there…

…Well, Erik wasn't certain what happened next, and he did not wish to dwell on not knowing the particulars.

He might have continued in this circular bit of thinking for quite some time, circumventing the details of his own escape, trying to focus on one white-and-black-blotched shoe being put in front of the other, if a strange, high-pitched squeal hadn't interrupted him.

Erik froze. He stood still as the stones around him and listened, hoping that whatever had made that sound couldn't hear his heart hammering in his throat. The noise had come from ahead, but he couldn't place exactly where. With soft steps – he had quite a bit of experience sneaking around the Opera Populaire, and had avoided unwanted attention easily enough – Erik crept between two larger chunks of rock. He peered around one of them. What he saw made his eyes pop and his mouth drop in a silent gasp.

A large mass of white fur stood in his path. It reared up upon its haunches, raking the empty air with ferocious claws. It had a pointed face covered in long, trembling whiskers, and its eyes shone with a red gleam which Erik swore embodied evil incarnate. Close behind it trailed something which reminded Erik of a worm, or a kind of naked, featureless snake. The creature waved its head about, searching the air for an elusive scent. Perhaps it could smell the strange, distinctive aura of ink?

Erik flattened himself against the rock. Though he remained still and silent, his insides were flopping about, and rushes of hot and cold tremors had him on the verge of sickness. That…that thing! Such a hideous creature…never had his nightmares conjured such a demon! Yet as he contemplated the monster, there was some calmer part of his mind which urged him to take a second look. Against all better judgements, Erik gathered a few tatters of courage and stuck his head around the side of the stone. It was still there and it seemed to be searching for him. This time Erik really looked at the creature. Its nose and whiskers wiggled about in the dirt, and its claws were scraping harmlessly about in the sand. That pink snake seemed…no…definitely was attached to the larger, furrier creature.

Erik blinked, allowing his mind a moment more to process what he was seeing. Then everything came together and he had to step back, pressing himself once more to his little pebble. He needed something firm under his fingers.

"A rat," he murmured to empty air, "A…rat."

* * *

_In a sassy Cherik Voice: "rats...for a rAT."_


End file.
